The First White Man
June 15 2008


So far, the year without summer.
Plenty of rain
and cloud all day,
hugging the earth like wood-smoke.

At least I have an excuse to let the lawn grow.
And the peepers are still loud, still mating
in overflowing swamps and ponds,
condominiums for happy frogs.

I walk down by the zigzag creek,
now a swollen mountain torrent.
Where familiar rocks are submerged,
and small drops
pound-down, deafening,
and the cool mist
quickly drenches me.
A massive tree
is newly lodged in the narrows,
picked-up like a twig of kindling.
I tight-rope across
the wetly treacherous log,
to find a virgin forest
unexplored.

Because perspective changes everything,
and on this side
time could have turned back centuries.
I am a voyageur
the first white man to leave his steps;
where starving black flies
are keen to try
my pale piggy flesh,
and the primeval forest
is green and fresh.

I think I might just stay.
Back when the world was undiscovered,
and there were long hot summers,
and the silence
was deafening.